


World's Oldest Virgin Makes his Move pt. ii of Loving and Losing

by Celeste666



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bacon Sandwich, F/M, Intimacy, O captain my captain, Sex, Steve Rogers finally has sex, Steve and Cedar, Steve steals a kiss, World's Oldest Virgin, World's Oldest Virgin loses it, World's oldest virgin no more, hangover cure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celeste666/pseuds/Celeste666
Summary: Steve and Cedar finally find their way.





	

World's Oldest Virgin Makes His Move: of Loving and Losing

The Needle and The Wheel pt ii (Bacon Sandwich)

Maybe he was too early. Sitting on the steps, stooped a bit against the cold, brown paper bag sitting on the treads of the steps between his feet, he felt like anything but a “superhero.” Hands shoved into pockets. If she was going to yoga she should be leaving the building sometime soon. Heard the door click. Didn’t look.  
A familiar boot appeared beside his hip, the other on the other side. She sat on the step above him, flash of red coat in his peripheral vision. Cold air in through his nose. Felt her settle; head rest against the middle of his back, knees hugged him. Deep sigh. Just a few moments. Just a little peace.  
“You checking pockets yet?” He asked, looking out across the square toward ‘their’ coffee kiosk.  
“Steve.” Quiet. “What I said last night…”  
Interrupting, “gave me a lot to think about. And plenty to talk about. If you’ll let me.” If you’ll just let me.  
She shifted her head. Cheek against his back now, he could hear her voice better. Low. “Of course I’ll let you.” Deep sigh.  
Nothing.

“What smells so good?” she sounded tired.  
“Ah, soup, and oh,” reaching into the bag and pulling out something wrapped in tin foil, handing it over his shoulder. “Sam’s special hangover cure.”  
“Mmmm” Sounds of unwrapping. Wanted to see her, watch her, check her face. Couldn’t’ turn. What if he didn’t like what he saw?  
“Bacon”  
“Grilled bacon and mayonnaise, ideally avocado but…” now he was sounding like the professor.  
“Fat and carbs. OK, makes sense” Sounds of a bite. “Oh my god.” Head back onto his shoulder. “That’s good.”  
Reached into the bag again. Handing over his shoulder again.  
“Oh, electrolyte water. You…you’re just…”  
“Thoughtful?” fishing. Still staring across the square.  
Sigh “Nice. Too nice. Nicer than I deserve.” Pause. “I’m not actually…very nice.” Clarifying.  
“No. Nope. You’re really not.” Beat, eyes back to the treads between his feet. “Not why I’m here though. -Nice. It’s overrated. You love people Cedar, your people. Jordie, Tim, the neighbors.” Me? Could I be one of those?  
Sniff. She was getting up.  
Facing each other now. No make-up. She looked rough. Lines around her eyes, dark circles. Bacon sandwich in one hand, water in the other, yoga bag and another over her shoulder.  
Holding up the paper bag. “Make you lunch?” He asked.  
Turning her face away. Pulled keys from her pocket. Stripped one off. Hadn’t looked at him yet. “If I’m gonna make it, I’ve gotta…” another sniff. Hanging there, the sentence, her whole self.  
Held out his hand. She pressed the key into it, started turning. “Cedar,”  
She stopped. Turned back. Sank her head into his chest.  
It was this simple; this simple. Kissing her hair. “I love you.”  
Sigh, sniff. Light push off and she turned to go.

 

“Sam?”  
“Yeah? What’s up man, how’s…”

“What’s BTW?” interrupting.  
“What? Are you in an elevator?”  
“What? No, stairwell. What’s BTW. In a text. All caps.”  
“By The Way.” Silence. “It stands for ‘by the way’ things ok, man?”

“Huh. Heck of a ‘by the way.’ Oh, yeah. I, uh, I think it’s gonna be ok.”  
Staring at the text.  
*BTW – I love you 11:07

Muscles stretched to fatigue, hot water washing away the grime and even some of the guilt. Hot soup, lentil, with ham added from ‘Sandros, just like she liked it – he knew. He’d asked. She still felt warm with shame, washing the plates, when he disappeared.  
Music came on. She smiled, relaxed a bit. Had taught him how to use Spotify. Turning away from the sink, she took in the scene. His jacket draped over a chair in the living space, he was moving to the couch now, wearing the gray waffle weave she liked. Tricky.  
Looked up at her. “Come over here.” Settling on the couch. Keep it cool man. She looked a little spooked.  
Sigh. So fully inhabiting that corner of the couch, charcoal gray somehow picking up that blue in his eyes, denim, boots, his unofficial uniform.  
“Cedar?” tone asking. Then, “I wanna talk to you.” Pause. “Please.”  
Ugh. Compass still in his jacket, no foil packets. Is this a break up? Didn’t feel like a break-up, the air in the room, the way his hand looked, resting on the sofa.  
“I wanted to talk last night.” He was studying her now. She changed after the shower. Skirt again, as usual, boots, leggings, and a brown sweater buttoned halfway, cream chemise underneath. Shifting on her feet. A good sign?  
“Look, this would really be a lot easier if you’d just come over here.” Stretched out his long arm across the back of the sofa, crossed his ankle over his knee, creating space. Couldn’t be inviting her to crawl into his lap any more clearly. Then, again…  
“Please.”  
Two pleases. Ugh. She was awful. This was different. So much raw vulnerability. That was it. He looked vulnerable. Damn heartbreaking. She bent and started unzipping a boot. Silence. Pulled it off, unzipping the other.  
His chest, tight, started loosening.  
Now for the wise crack. “Just as long as you don’t take that shirt off.”  
A flood washed over him, warm, the return of some ease. Her eyes came up. He’d started taking off his boots too. Was now stretching out on the sofa.  
She straightened back up. Stopped. Oh, oh. Too much? “C’mere” motioning to her.  
Wary look. She didn’t have much of a poker face either when it came down to it.  
God, what had it been? What all had she said to him? Asked him what did he want? Couldn’t he just be himself? Comment about his ‘iconic ex’? Had she said that? Saying she couldn’t, wouldn’t compete. And then ‘you don’t need a compass to find your way around me.’ Good God. Why was she so mean?  
“Cedar. Where are you? What are you doing?”  
“Close your eyes.”  
Eyebrows knitting. Not closing his eyes. He slid further down on the couch, slightest shake of his head, little smile, motioning again. DAMN. Ok, then.  
She stepped behind the kitchen counter. Sounds of shimmy-ing, clothes rustle. Oh, no!  
“Oh,” himself, laugh. Now closing his eyes. Why? Imagining. “So, the shirt comment. Kind of a Brer Rabbit ‘don’t throw me in the briar patch?’ thing?”  
“Wow, ok” heard her walking toward the couch, voice warm. “Maybe have a chance here after all.”

She read him so right. How nice. How nice. She’d shed the stockings. How nice to be known. Her legs. God he loved those legs. Finally ready to admit he’d noticed them the first night, not just because they were at ‘eye level’ from where they were sitting in the auditorium, what he’d told Sam. Because they always looked so perfect in her clothes. And sure, her neck was irresistible, and her collarbones called to him like they needed his attention. He wanted to forget his hands in the softness of her, of her breasts, and all of her, and feel her up against him. But her legs.  
Crammed together, side by side, facing each other on the couch, slogging through the swamp, explaining Peggy and the compass and wanting to live his own life now, with her, that he didn’t want to follow any compass that pointed anywhere other than toward her. At one point reached and pulled the leather bag from his coat. No, no foil packets. She winced. Assumptions? This time she’d assumed. She hid her face in his now bare chest. Finally, through the talking they’d rolled. Carefully scooping, shifting weight. She’d cooperated, then anticipating, boosted herself up. She was stretched on top of him, head resting on his shoulder, slow-breathing against his neck.  
She was small enough that he could reach the tops of her calves, the crease behind her knees, fit his palms around her thighs. Tiny whimper that he knew wasn’t distress and she settled again.  
“You know I’ve always loved your clothes?” murmuring down toward her ear. Relax Cedar, relax. Deep breathing.  
“mmmm” Letting him find his way. Her heart pummeling her.  
“The dresses and skirts,” hands warm on her legs. “Tough not to imagine…”  
Watch, watch, watch the mouth! She ordered herself. Wiggled closer to him. Tightened her legs, pushing the bottoms of her feet against the tops of his, firm muscles raising into his palms.  
“You know.” She started. Swallowed, tried to go on. “Surely. I mean.” Tears? Really? Leaking… “I feel really good, really safe with you and …” say it. “I wouldn’t mind your doing a lot more than imagining.” Half a whisper-sob. Tucking herself even closer.  
Complete KO. “Cedar?” Voice strangled. Hands up the backs of her legs, slick fabric around her ass, lace at the waist band. Pulling her against him, ruching up the skirt.  
She tugged herself to sitting, straddling him again. Too hot, itchy sweater, hair coming down. Started working on the buttons.  
“Hey, hey, hey” Hands over hers.  
What the hell? Explode? Cry? Ready to swear. Please!  
But he was leaning up, tipping her back, one arm behind her, rising up off the couch with her in his lap like she weighed nothing. Shifting, tucking. Now she was on her back at the other end of the couch and he was hovering over her, knee on the sofa between hers, other hands on the buttons.  
“I just really wanted to do that myself.” He breathed.

Clothes everywhere. Still had his jeans on. She was stripped to underwear. Now navigating the odd corner apartment she loved with its freaky open stairs heading up to her lofted room.  
Two steps above him, leading the way, the dent in the small of her back had become irresistible. He wrapped his arm around her, leaned to kiss the spot just above the lace waist band of the sailor striped underwear, then kept kissing straight up her spine, hands locking onto her hips.  
Breathe. Solid wall of warm, breathing, beating, muscle with busy hands behind her on the stairs. Stay standing, stay standing, stay standing, the mantra in her head, competing with the desire to move, and move, and bend, or stretch and push. Finally stopped, arching shoulders back against him, leaning, fanning her ass against his crotch. The push-me-pull-you of desire as he pressed his forehead against the back of her neck, and pulled her hips hard up against him.  
‘Open me up, open me up’ new mantra. What’d he said on the couch? Explaining what he wanted. Find all the freckles? Connect all the dots? Map the beauty marks; more specifically, with his mouth. Explore her? Arching that way, hips and belly forward, opening her chest so he could reach, caress as much of her torso and breasts as he needed.  
His hand stroked lower, pinky snagging the lace of her underwear, paused, reversed, two fingers now, lower, slipping under the lace. Her breath quickening, spots floating. “Explore her” he’d said. Sway, stairs unsteady. He wouldn’t let her fall, but on his next pass, four fingers intruding below that delicate band and its tiny coral bow.  
“Hang on.” She stopped his hand with hers. Held it there. Steadied herself against him.  
“Cedar” voice low, tight. She felt his jaw muscles working against her temple.  
“I just. Hey,” laughed, breath. “You go there now and we don’t make it up the stairs.”  
Hands to her ribcage. “By all means.” Husky whisper and a light push to steady her to standing.  
“Got an idea” as she straightened up. Reaching behind, tweaked the button of his jeans. “It’s 47 by the way, standard. Every pair you’ve ever worn that I’ve seen.” Waistband in one hand, working the zipper down with the other. He’d rested his mouth against her hair, seemed to be concentrating on breathing. Jeans started to slide. Between them they worked them down – something she’d wanted to see, or do, watch those jeans disappear; now just wanting them gone. Heard fabric on the stair, his body shifting, imagining him stepping out of the pile of discarded denim. Looking for her joke – something about the Full Monty, but her breath was gone. She’d never even seen his legs.  
That mind reading again – or just the inevitable. Left knee and thigh brushing against her as that foot joined hers on the step. Looking at her hand on his knee, starting to pet and stroke, darker hair than she’d imagined. He tugged her against his erection and gently head-butted the base of her skull. Indicating ‘up.’

He didn’t know whether to lie. Not his first instinct. But it might’ve been nice to say something normal like “So this is your room.” He’d seen it dozens of times though, and her asleep in it, when they’d been surveilling – knew where the cameras were. Had established a routine with Nat for disabling them when he came to the apartment – audio and video. That was the deal, when he was there.  
Hadn’t thought of the mirror though. Oh, ugh. The trope of every bad porn film or romance, but now he understood why. Held her arm, pulled her back in front of what looked like a genuine antique dresser.  
“Oh, no. Steve” Sounded like genuine embarrassment.  
“But, just. Wait.” He was mesmerized – pulling her in front of him, still a little awkward about the boxers, but more than eager to look at her.  
She was trying to turn toward him, away from the glass. Geez! At least the overhead wasn’t on, just afternoon light, cold white, winter light coming in. Not flattering. Belly, small breasts sagging more than they used to... oh, and some cellulite. Nice. Didn’t seem to be seeing what he saw though…  
Oh, well. Ok, she could look at him in the mirror. Smirked, not so diminutive, shorter but they looked nice together. She reached up and behind her, to find his shoulders, neck, face. Had the effect of lifting her breasts a bit. Not so bad.  
In the mirror, his eyes were watching his hands. Amazing, perfect. He could see her and touch her all at the same time. One hand on her hip, the other, exploring, open palm, caressing. She watched his face reflected; concentration, desire painting a flush on his lips and cheeks. Swoon. Full swoon. For real swoon. Had to lean against him. Loose erection poked her in the back. Laughed, couldn’t help it.  
Looked up. Now he was hiding his face from the mirror, tucked it into her mussed hair. “Ha. Ok, so now who’s embarrassed?” She wiggled up against him.  
Eyes back on her and serious, voice low. “How? Cedar, how could you be embarrassed?” Saw him looking down over her shoulder, reach under her raised arm, flat palm, spread fingers. He started etching circles into his palm with her erect nipple.  
She really couldn’t stand up much longer, started to say so but then noticed…and asked. “Baby?” slipped out, pitch rising. His eyes back to hers. Wait. He was. She snuggled closer, back against his belly and chest. Reaching, found his face and watched him lean his cheek into her palm and close his eyes.  
“You’re trembling.” She whispered.  
Felt and saw the shape of a smile in her palm.  
“Yeah, well.” Quiet voice. Hands stilled now, wrapping her ribcage. Shifted his face into her hair again. Big sigh. “I’m kinda terrified.”  
His sigh, that confession, took her breath. “But – what? Steve? Of, of this?? Of me? Not of me? Of…”  
“So maybe D. All of the above?” Now finding his way through her hair to kiss that favorite star behind her ear.  
“But honey” protesting gently, all the southern coming back in this intimate space. “This is just me and you, and you know… you, you fight off all the biggest, baddest guys and space aliens and…”  
To her ear, so serious “…and I don’t much care how they feel about me.”  
Ok, hmmm.  
She found a drawer-pull on the dresser with her toes, propped her foot, re-balanced. Her idea had her breathing hard already. Watching in the mirror, she put her right hand over his, finger for finger, started guiding him toward her center.  
Vision flickered. “Fair enough.” She began. He was tensing, reacting, but not raising his eyes.  
“Just so you know.” She couldn’t look anymore. Closed her eyes. Guiding his fingers, hand, past the lace, past the coral bow, lower and lower, between her parted legs. Took a breath and pushed his fingers down, between, just inside. “This is how I feel about you.”

Peaches. Fresh peaches. Once. Maybe 10 years old. Firm flesh, juice all over his face. Three men in a beaten up truck, driven all the way from South Carolina to their neighborhood, selling the fruit cheap, before it rotted. Women and kids out in the street, surrounding the truck, passing out fruit. He’d never had one, certainly not one warm from a long drive in the sun, never that ripe either, flesh so different from an apple, slick and sweet and firm in his mouth. Like nothing else, until now. He’d eaten three.

They were on the bed, clambering for each other, the stupid condom, and she rolled onto her back, pulling him. Half blind, he planted a knee between hers and knocked her legs open with the other. Instinct, surprise. She practically shouted. It was ok, just desire again, but loud. She pulled him down by the hips, arching and twisting. Felt her heel plant against his back. Exchanging names and breath, all urgency. Then  
Peace –  
He hadn’t known he was a sea creature. Poor, poor thing. Flailing all his life on land. But now, inside her, he could move. Complete ease. And the cacophony had stopped. The screeching of nerves all along his penis had turned to singing. Or was that her? Peace, but no stillness. This oceanic truce required movement. Here was a dance he already knew. A partner seemingly made for him.  
So full. So open. All at the same time. No way, no possible way to manage all of him, but trying and trying to make room, accommodate and surround as much of him as possible. All trembling now, and gasping, and movement, treading desire, every move stirring up more and more. Sorcerer’s apprentice. Too many buckets, too much fire.  
She kept shoving, lifting her hips off the mattress, pushing with her heels. Wretched with pleasure just kept trying to breathe. He was gasping, straining. Battering ram. She felt it, got it…why someone would call it that, had named it such. Caught between the exchange of his and hers excitement and the need to be a little easier.  
“Steve,”  
He stopped, caught, fighting. “Sorry I…”  
“No. No. It’s ok, its ok it, I just…” panting “Hang on. I just, I just… need to get my breath.” Her face, pink, lips parted and dry from breathing hard, eyes wide, evening sun catching green rims.

“You look concussed”  
“I might be if we were any closer to that headboard.”  
“Sorry, I…Cedar, your amazing, I...sorry”  
“Shhhhh” smiling “Not sorry” leaning up, biting at his lip, tugging, hungry. Flopped back, hand to his cheek. “I just. Maybe there is such a thing as being a little too excited?” Did she mean him or her? Closed her eyes “Give me a sec. Just need to relax.”  
He rested his forehead on the pillow beside her head. Hurting her? Had he hurt her? Been too rough? But this need to move. The sensation of her all around him; feeling her breathing, feeling her breathing from the inside. No way he could stay still. Try to relax, relax. Breathe. Breathe.  
Then a sigh. Release. Magic. And he sank further into her, centimeters or centuries. He didn’t know. Loud again, a moan, a groan, her head went back, she turned her cheek. Pleasure like a punch. He couldn’t see her face, only the turned cheek. Kissing her neck, her jaw. Wanting to find that note again, moving, but gentler this time, sinking inside her, deeper, a deeper groan. Her head rolled the other direction, another gut punch. The pleasure infectious.  
"Cedar," He slid his arms under her, behind her shoulders, under her tailbone. So alive, she was vibrating. She curled against him - intentional, muscles tight, stroking all along his penis inside her, and at the same time wrapping her legs around him. Entirely off the bed now, all in his arms. Music, a rhythm of breathe and sighs.  
So close, she could only focus on his jawline. That dizzying plane, muscles working in his shoulder. Blue of his eyes. Felt her breath catch. She grabbed his hips; planted her feet on the bed, bent knees at his ribcage, curling and curling toward him, pelvis licking flame, bones nearly scraping, curling against him.  
Discovery. He was watching. Trying to slow her down, not wanting it to end. She started to squirm and pull with her legs again. "Cedar, sweetheart..." He tried to stay present, concentrate, and breathe. “Shhhhh” he offered to her ear. Felt her struggling; struggle to relax, to join him, to sink deep again. He adjusted his arms, let her stretch, bellies together, warm skin, vital organs, beating against each other. Mesmerized again, watching her face, now. Beautiful as a painting, a carving, an animated statue. Giving her pleasure almost more exciting than taking it. She threw her arm across her face. “Hey, where are you?” Hadn’t realized he’d just been still and watching.  
Where was he? Adjusted arms again, teasing, easing her out long again, stretching her. Sank deep. Heard his own breath, and groan. Mouth forcing her chin up as he kissed her neck. Thumbs stroking her sides. Sliding. Pulling away, her arms came up and around. Eyes on his. Green flash, sun going down. Lost it. Kissing her lips, wanting her as wet there as between her legs. Breathing hard again, and she was gasping. “Too excited?” she asked.  
Relax, relax, relax. But the tossing rhythm was too much. He’d heard a soldier, a marine, talking about training in the ocean, being caught in the undertow, the only thing saving him being tethered to his company. No saving him, this undertow was too strong. He went under, breathing her and suddenly, everything went white, his body shuddering, instant acceleration to the speed of light.  
“Cedar” Like the breath knocked out of him. Like a cloth wrung out. Climax? More like racing to the top, and over, and having the world fall away. His heart was pounding them both. Muscles seizing and relaxing, pounding and pouring inside her. Sighing. Whispering her name.  
His heartbeat shook them both, sweat on his skin, salty, smell of semen. She licked his neck, was stroking his face, found his mouth. Kissing deep, open, earnest, sated. He swiped his forehead against the pillowcase and started to move.  
“No, no.” She held his hips. “Stay.”  
“I’ll crush you.”  
“No, physics. I promise. My pelvic bones, really. I can hold you, here, like this. Until you start falling asleep.”  
“Asleep? Are you kidding me” kissed her mouth, cheek, eyelids. “King of Insomnia, remember.”

“Ugh! Steve” pushing. “Baby! Ugh- off!” Shoving, finally rolling him off. Side by side, holding hands as he regained consciousness.  
“Wow, I did fall asleep.” He mused at the ceiling.  
“Not only that,” teasing tone back.  
He smiled, couldn’t wait. “What?”  
“Well, Steven Grant Rogers. I do believe I heard you take the Lord’s name in vain. At least twice.”  
He could hear the smirking. Smiled, closed his eyes and squeezed her hand. “In vain nothing. That was Praise and Thanksgiving.”

**Author's Note:**

> Part i of this is Titled World's Oldest Virgin Makes his Move; of Condoms and Compasses. To learn more about Steve and Cedar's whole story check out "O My America" Celeste 666


End file.
